She had expected a formidable force, a wicked expression, a woman with hair made of snakes. Even after seeing Flora’s painted picture on their wall in the living room, with her fancy dress and hard-as-nails expression, and knowing that the decades would have added wrinkles, posture issues, and a laundry list of aging’s realities, Margo still wasn’t prepared for this. This Flora was frail. Her bony hand rested on the arm of her chair, a ruby ring tilted under its own weight, a silver rosary entwined in her fingers. Her white hair was so thin, Margo could see the tan of her scalp, and her cheeks caved into her facial bones. Her eyes were deep sockets hidden behind glasses.
Margo had planned to spear her with curse words and accusations, but nothing left her mouth. The woman was a hundred years old today, and despite Margo’s initial desire to spew hate, there was a vulnerability in that. There were times now when she’d catch her reflection in a mirror upon passing and do a double take. Inside, one felt evergreen, but the exterior can be such a jerk.
And seeing this woman, alive, when her own mother was dead felt more like a gift rather than a curse.
Against Margo’s better judgment, her heart softened a little.
“Come. Don’t be afraid.” The woman spoke with a surprisingly energetic voice.
“She’s not afraid,” Diana piped up from behind.
Margo sighed and gave her daughter the look that said she would take care of it. She turned to Flora. “Thank you for seeing us … Flora.”
She wasn’t sure how to address her. Her age seemed to deserve some kind of title, but she couldn’t bear to say Mrs. Cruz. Margo might have been polite, but she wasn’t a fake.
“Please, sit.” Flora pointed at the settee in front of her, and Margo obliged. She sank into the plush seating, taking in the expanse of the room, the religious wood carvings and paintings that decorated the space. Details that cost more than what she’d made every year. Everything she’d done to make ends meet: working as many photography jobs as possible, applying for every discounted and free school food program, powdered milk, canned fruit and vegetables. S’mores over the gas stove, shoes that wore down over Diana’s toes.
The fire of anger that had ignited at the cemetery now warmed and bolstered her with the thought that she’d done it all without anyone’s help.
So she sat a little taller, raised her chin at this woman.
“Can I touch your face?” Flora asked.
“What?” The words pushed Margo back into her chair. She glanced at her daughter; Diana sported the same look of incredulity.
“I can’t see very well, even with my glasses.”
“Um, I suppose.” She stood and went to the woman and bent at the waist.
Flora leaned in, her eyes canvassing Margo’s face. “Colette told me who you are. And she said you even did a DNA test, but I have to know it’s true.” Her hand grazed Margo’s face, gripped her chin, and turned her face to the side. The examination, surprisingly, did not make Margo cower. Instead, she took that moment to examine this woman back.
“Good-luck mole, I see.” She pointed to Margo’s beauty mark on her cheek. “And you like fake jewelry.”
Margo smiled despite herself.
Flora’s hands dropped to Margo’s, and she held one with surprising grip, then turned it right side up. “You’re fair, but you have his lips, his cheekbones. And his hands. You have his hands. But he had calluses. Tough ones that never seemed to heal, even when he stopped working. He always tried to plant things that I knew would never grow in our soil, but he kept trying. He even had seeds flown in.”
This was all too much. Seeds flown in? Why wasn’t Margo flown in? Why couldn’t she have made the trip instead of inconsequential seeds? A single tear answered for her, without her permission, and she hated her moment of weakness.
Flora wiped the tear with her thumb. “Do not cry, anak.” The old woman made her way to stand, pushing her hand against the armchair, shaking as Colette and the caregiver came to her side. Even Diana stood, probably from medical instinct because the woman looked, as she swayed, as if she were going to faint.
Margo, all the while, watched in a mild daze. Flora called her anak. Child.
“Wait, where are we going? What’s happening?” Diana asked.
Flora’s voice quavered. “We cannot waste any more time than what has already passed. I’m going to greet my guests, we will cut the cake, and then celebrate this new beginning.” She raised her eyebrows when no one around her moved. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
The group startled into action. A wheelchair was produced at their side. And as Flora tutted instructions to the caregiver and her granddaughter, Margo stepped into the background with her daughter, who downed the rest of her champagne.
Margo didn’t drink—it didn’t agree with her stomach—but for the first time in a very long time, she was tempted. Her emotions were in knots. She had had every intention of telling this woman off, and now she was about to follow her into the party and then what?
Cameron came to mind then, his words, the conviction in his expression at the airport. His kiss, a reminder that she was who she was despite all this, despite what would happen in the next room.
“Fuck them,” she whispered.
“Ma, did you cuss?” Diana slurred. Her daughter clearly had already had too much. Her fourth glass of champagne was in her hand. Diana always walked with a kind of a poise; she ran with a purpose. She had to-do lists that were actually completed and checked-off, but right now, her limbs were like a baby giraffe’s, too limber and loose. Not a good sign.
“Do you think all those people know by now?” Diana asked too loudly when they entered the main party room. “They shouldn’t be staring at us. We should be staring at them. That’s right, bitches, look. We belong here.”
Joshua stifled a snort.
Oh, to clamp a hand over her daughter’s mouth.
They made their way to the cake. Margo attempted to slip away from center stage. This was Flora’s moment, despite the unfolding family drama. The band was ready for its cue, and the servers lit the candles. But Flora reached out to Margo’s forearm and tugged her back into place. “Stay here.”
Out of respect for Flora, and because the phones had come out of pockets and purses, she stayed. Margo understood the power of social media. It had only taken a few pictures on her Instagram account before one went viral.
Behind her, Diana hiccupped. “Are there really a hundred candles on that cake? I wonder where the closest smoke detector is?” She craned her neck upward. “Oh good, there it is.”
A server handed a microphone to Colette, who set it below her grandmother’s lips.
Flora’s shaking voice echoed into the silent room. “Thank you for coming today. Even if I don’t feel well enough to see all of you personally, I am so happy that you are here to celebrate with me. Today, I am one hundred years old. That is a lot of years. I have forgotten many details, but the big things stay with me. You all have changed before my eyes. The country has changed. I have changed, too.”
“You’ve become more and more beautiful!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“Ah, Junn, you are too kind.” Flora laughed and took a breath. “I’d better hurry up before I have to sit.” Laughter permeated the crowd. Her caregiver made to get Flora’s wheelchair, but she waved her away and continued. “When you get to be my age, you don’t wish for material things, because none of that matters. We are but skin and bones. Fragile outsides that cover up what matters inside. Yes, even you, Manolo—you won’t live forever.” She eyed a man mid-pull at his beer, who stilled at being called out. Someone cackled.